


sonny liston rubbed some tiger balm into his glove (some things you do for money and some you do for love, love, love)

by telekinetics



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Misuse of Shakespeare, anyway i didn't put 'graphic depictions of violence' as a warning bc its not graphic, but like. I mean there IS murder so just know that, cousin greg can have a little muder, oh the first scene involves a shooting so again. Just know that, to quote sam 'if it wasn't ridiculous it wouldn't be faithful to the source material'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinetics/pseuds/telekinetics
Summary: Tom’s features slackened. He was looking at Greg like Greg was something to be looked at. Pure, undiluted attention, not warped into something else out of shame or spite.“Let me get this straight.” He breathed, and he was so close that Greg could feel it tickle his chin. “You ... killed Roman?”
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	sonny liston rubbed some tiger balm into his glove (some things you do for money and some you do for love, love, love)

**Author's Note:**

> half of this was written in a 3am state of delirium and none of it should be taken seriously please don’t take this seriously I wrote this entire thing while hysterically laughing   
> title from love love love by the mountain goats

It genuinely was an accident the first time. 

Active shooter, not a drill, and Greg had gotten separated from the rest of them somehow, ending up alone in the halls of Waystar Royco, the hysteria emphasized by a creeping silence in the wake of the stampede clearing out into the panic rooms. As so often happened, his body stopped cooperating with him. He stood there, motionless, jaw hanging open like the idiot they always made him out to be. Greg, the worst kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. 

He was alone until he wasn’t. 

He met Roman’s eyes from across the room, a moment of solidarity, until he saw the quirk of Roman’s lips, shit-eating grin tampered down only by the severity of the situation, but Greg—who was usually rather bad at deciphering those kinds of things—read the meaning of it easily: _ah, you, you fucker, of-fucking-course,_ and, well, that was when Greg went a little nuts. He was fucking tired of being laughed at. Or maybe it was easy to find motive in the retrospect. There can’t always be an answer for why a person does. . . the things they do. Sometimes, things are just, like. . . done. _Eloquent, Greg_ , a voice in his head said, a voice that sounded a worrying amount like Tom. _No, really. Nice job with that one._

He was getting ahead of himself. 

Anyway. Then there were footsteps. He turned to the other side of the room, this time meeting the eyes of a man who seemed, at best, deranged, and who was very much pointing a gun directly at Greg. He didn’t seem to see Roman, crouched into a corner at an angle close to him. It all happened very quickly. 

“You,” The shooter said, with a gruff nod at Greg. The hand holding the gun was shaking; maybe, _maybe_ if he shot, he’d miss. “Roy?”

It took Greg a second to process the words; they went completely over his head before he forced himself to go back and internalize them—not just because of the stakes, although those were far from ideal, but because the question itself seemed so ridiculous. Was Greg a Roy? Yes, he’d like to think so, but, really, he was little more than a glorified fucking mascot. If he were a person in control of his reactions, if he were a person who could show they had a backbone, he would probably laugh.

But Greg wasn’t that person. Instead, trembling, he pointed to himself, and quietly echoed “Uh, me? Me, Roy?”

The shooter frowned; he seemed almost disappointed, go fucking figure. Then, he clucked his tongue and clicked the safety off of the gun, and—and—again, it all happened very quickly.

“No, uh. No. I’m not. A Roy, that is. So, there, uh, there isn’t a reason to—kill me. Sir. I’m not—I’m not what you’re looking for. I’m not a Roy.” 

“You’re all I’ve got, though.” The shooter pointed out, which was, in its own way, reasonable, Greg had to admit. Except—

“No, uh, actually. There’s a, uh. There’s a Roy right behind you.” 

Roman’s eyes widened, staggering back as the man turned to him, surprised. 

“What the fuck, Greg?” Roman said, like he couldn’t quite believe the situation he’d found himself in, but Greg was too busy living in slow motion. It all happened very quickly—until it didn’t. Now, he saw everything happening through a tunnel. Roman raised his arms, shouting out obscene prices for his freedom at random, but the man merely steadied his gun and pointed it square at him and—

The police streamed into the room as Roman’s body fell to the floor, and Greg saw that in slow motion too, not a fall from grace but a graceful fall, mouth wide and open, face flushed, a hole in his forehead and blood seeping into the carpet. His eyes were open and although his head was facing up, his right arm was splayed out, pointing directly at Greg like a final condemnation. 

The paramedics couldn’t revive him, but they strapped him to a gurney anyway. And when they did, they folded his arms over his chest, so he was pointing at nobody but himself and God. If you squinted. 

Greg, pushing past the crowds of people desperate to get to the scene of the crime, ducked into the nearest bathroom, dropped to his knees, and spent the next hour throwing up. 

  


The funeral—uncomfortable. 

The better word for it was eluding Greg. Awful? Tragic? All of the above? It was a tricky situation. It was a _horrible_ situation. But Greg felt… fine. Obviously, he was riddled with guilt and anxiety and when a ladybug grazed his cheek during somebody’s speech he slapped himself and had to bite back a scream, but he thought he ought to be feeling worse. Was he a stone-cold killer? A sociopath? No, Greg thought he had a pretty decent moral compass, at least compared to those around him. But his principles had never gotten him much more than mocking. This time, he’d sacrificed them, and because of that Roman was dead. And he was alive. 

Maybe the Roys were onto something. 

  


“Shiv and Ken, they’re paying tribute on their own, something cliche like dumping alcohol into waterways,” Tom said, hands shoved into his pockets, body leaning into Greg’s like it always did when they talked, like he couldn’t help it. “We should do something, too. Just to take our minds off things.”

“Roman’s dead.” Greg said, even though it wasn’t what he was planning on saying at all. Tom’s face got pinched, like he’d sucked on a lemon and the acrid taste had caught him off guard. Tom would probably go to his grave insisting a lemon could be sweet if he thought that’s what somebody was asking of him.

“Yes, Greg, exactly. Everything’s too fucking sad.”

“It sucks.”

“Yeah. Death sucks.”

“Death _sucks_ sucks.”

“Sucks sucks,” Tom echoed, rolling his eyes. “Greg the linguist.”

“Fuck off.”

“ _Hey_.” He said, a warning, and Greg pressed his lips together, said nothing else, waited for Tom to go on. Which he did. “Anyway. It’s all very tragic. We should get away. A restaurant in the wake of all of this would be uncouth, right? We could just go to my place. Shiv won’t be back for a while.”

Greg felt a keen urge to laugh. Most of the time, it was like Tom couldn’t hear the words that came out of his own mouth. Tom was the fakest person he knew, but he was so earnestly fake it always kind of threw Greg. Tom Wambsgans, palatable smile, palatable body movements. It was like he truly had no idea that everything he said to Greg sounded like they were about to partake in an illicit English affair. 

“Hello?” Tom said, flicking Greg’s forehead a little to the left of where Roman was shot. “Anybody home?”

“Not your wife.” Greg answered, automatically, and Tom laughed, much too hard and loud for it to be sincere, the way he did when he didn’t have a perfect answer to something. Or what he thought was a perfect answer, at least. Rare moments of self-awareness. Greg wondered if Tom knew that he sounded absolutely fucking insane most of the time.

“Greg, you fucker. Let’s go, c’mon.”

  


It was around midnight when they finally broached the subject. Greg sat on the floor, head leaning against the arm of the couch, long legs sprawled out over Tom’s thighs, both their suit jackets off. They were both drunk and still drinking, existing in that tenuous space where everything was funny and everything was allowed. 

“I never even really knew the bastard.” Tom said, smiling wryly. “But he was okay.”

Tom always spoke as though every word held utmost meaning. Like he was always being filmed. Greg didn’t have the heart to tell him he wasn’t much more than a supporting player in the Waystar Royco movie. He was pretty sure Tom already knew, anyway. 

“Yeah, I, uh, didn’t really know him either. Don’t think he liked me much, though.”

“Ah, Greg, that’s because he didn’t know the real you.” Tom said, and Greg could practically see him putting in the effort needed to make it sound sarcastic—which was really far more revealing than anything else. 

“Yeah. I think he thought I was kind of an idiot.” Greg said, blinking. He wondered if that would serve as a motive, if he were being tried for Roman’s murder. 

“Yeah? I think he liked me.” Tom said decisively. “He was always teasing. It’s like I was a real member of the family. We could’ve been like brothers, if we had the time. It’s all very tragic.” 

Greg said nothing, taking a silent sip of wine. 

“Wonder how this affects the successor.” Tom mused, and Greg sat up a bit, twisting his body to face him. 

“What, you think it was gonna be Roman?” 

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think Logan knows either. He’s kinda just rolling with the punches. Assigning a successor is like giving up his power. I don’t think he’ll do it until no other options present themselves.” Tom said, brow furrowed. 

“So, like, if it wasn’t just Roman? If another Roy was killed, they would crown the last one standing?”

“Jesus.” Tom said, but he’d turned fully towards Greg now, too, idle arm casually resting on Greg’s legs. “You’re a morbid fuck. Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Looking back, Greg wasn’t sure what made him do it. He just needed somebody to know—he just needed Tom to know. 

“I—” He started, then stopped, a wave of nausea overwhelming him.

“Woah, hey, careful. Don’t puke on the carpet. It’s silk.” (It was not silk.) 

“I have—there’s something. . . There’s something I have to tell you.” Greg said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. In response, Tom looked like he was buffering. 

“Something. . . you have to tell me.” He echoed, frowning, and he inched closer to Greg. “I don’t know if these are the right circumstances.”

“What?”

“Our minds are clearly scrambled from tragedy, Greg, I’m flattered, really, but we should probably sleep on it for a day or two, and—”

“Oh, what? Dude, no, that’s not at all what I was going for.” Greg cut in, and Tom clamped his mouth shut, tilting his head to the side like a puppy whose toy had been taken away. 

“No?”

“No, I—that would be pretty inappropriate? You’re my boss, and you’re married, and, and you’re kind of not really my type?” 

“Excuse me?”

“What I mean is—”

“Your type? How am I not your type? What the fuck is your type, Gregory? Minimum wage? Blue-collar? I’m just too successful, too high up in the food chain, too fucking platinum for you, is that it? Or what, are you going to tell me you’ve never fucked a guy, another pretty idiot just like you, because I don’t buy that at all, Greg.” Tom insisted, holding a fistful of Greg’s shirt in a chokehold. 

“Tom, I, I need you to listen to me, okay? I—”

“Really, I’m not trying to be scandalous, but this is bullshit, Greg, you look like you suck cock for a living.” 

“Please let go of my shirt?”

Tom did, huffing. Greg briefly entertained the idea that this was Tom’s version of foreplay.

“You’re a heathen, Greg. A predator.” 

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

“Don’t you dare start thinking I want to fuck you. I’m not gay. You are, which is why it’s ridiculous that you’re lying about not wanting to fuck me.”

“Totally. So—”

“Say it.”

“S-Say it?”

“Say I’m not gay.”

“I’m not gay?”

“No, you fucking inbred. Say _I’m_ not gay.”

“Oh, uh. You’re, you’re not gay.”

“Say it like you mean it!”

“Oh my God.”

“Say I’m not gay like you fucking mean it, Greg!”

“It’s my fault Roman’s dead.” 

“Jesus Christ, how hard is it to— _what?”_

“I got left behind when everybody made for the safe rooms, and, and I was alone, and then Roman was there and then the shooter was, too? And he hadn’t seen Roman, so he was pointing his gun at me, asking if I was a Roy, and I said. Well, I, I said there was a Roy right behind him. Because—because there was.”

Tom’s features slackened. He was looking at Greg like Greg was something to be looked at. Pure, undiluted attention, not warped into something else out of shame or spite. 

“Let me get this straight.” He breathed, and he was so close that Greg could feel it tickle his chin. “You... killed Roman?”

“What? _No!_ No, I—I did not _kill_ Roman!” Greg yelled, pulling away from Tom, effectively breaking their weird spell. “I just didn’t stop him from being killed.”

“That’s essentially the same thing.”

“It is _not_. If it had been me pointing the gun at him directly, I never would’ve gone through with it.”

“Well, you don’t know that. You would’ve said the same about the other thing a couple days ago, right?”

“Shut up.”

“ _Easy_.”

“No! _Shut up_.”

“Is that why you asked the thing about the successor? Last man standing, all that? What, are you gonna kill off Kendall next? Cozy up to Logan through supernatural selection?”

“I haven’t killed anybody.” Greg insisted, before adding, pettily; “And ‘ _supernatural selection’_ makes no sense. I’m not a, a fucking druid.”

“I thought it was clever.” Tom whined. 

“I haven’t killed anybody.”

“Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Tom allowed, and they fell into a silence that, really, should have been more unsettling. The television was muted, the only noise coming from the static and the rain banging on the windows. Then; 

“It would be smart.” Tom said. “Just, from an objective point of view. If this were a Netflix Miniseries, or whatever.”

“What?”

“Killing Kendall.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m not saying _do it,_ obviously. That’d be horrible. Unforgivable. But—it would be smart. More inheritance for you. Hell, if something happened to both of them, you might even be in the running for CEO. But you can’t kill Shiv. Obviously.”

“So I have the green light on brutally murdering Kendall, but we draw the line at Shiv?”

“I mean, come on, Greg. She’s my wife.” Tom pointed out, rolling his eyes and making a flamboyant little hand gesture that ideally should’ve translated to something like _you’re a fucking idiot._

Greg folded his arms, looking away from Tom. If this were a Netflix Miniseries, he would have to kill both Kendall and Shiv. He wondered briefly if he would get away with it—not in real life, but, say, within the plot of a TV show. Would he be the hero? Anti-hero? Protagonist? Or would he be the villain—would people root for him? Would he be something worth rooting for?

“If I was going to kill anyone, it would be Logan. That would be the people’s kill. Y’know?”

“The people’s kill.” Tom repeated dryly. “Right. You’re practically the Robin Hood of serial murderers. Besides, no, you can’t kill Logan. First off, I’m pretty sure he sold his soul back during, like, Prohibition era, and now he can’t die. And, either way, it would draw too much attention and you’d have to get through all his children first to reap the rewards.”

“That’s true.”

Greg felt Tom’s eyes slide back to him again, probing the side of his face curiously. He did his best not to writhe under the intensity of it. Tom wanted to devour the world whole but Greg was perfectly fine not being in his digestive system. 

“All of this is hypothetical, buddy, yeah?” He drawled. “You can’t actually kill Kendall.”

“Oh, God, no, yeah—that, that would be deplorable.”

“Yeah. Deplorable.”

“Death sucks.”

“Murder sucks.”

“Yeah. Murder _sucks_ sucks.”

  


In fairness to him, Greg did in fact plan to leave it there. He thought about it perhaps a little more than he should’ve, but he wasn’t concocting any schemes, wasn’t actively trying to get one over on Kendall Roy. 

In fact, Kendall was the one who approached and cornered him. 

“Hey, Greg.” Kendall said, and Greg jumped. “Can I talk to you for a second? Great.”

He motioned for Greg to follow, then spun on his heel and made his way over to the staircase. Greg swallowed nervously, smoothed out his pants, and obliged. Around them, the babel of people at work was uninterrupted. No one paid them a second thought as they slipped through the door and climbed the stairs, emerging only when they couldn’t go any further. They were on the roof, the sun was high in the sky, the complete opposite of The Day last week where it had rained and rained and they had mourned and mourned. It wasn’t surprising that the world went on and had its own personal agenda, it was just weird to see it executed.

“Hey, uh. What’s, ah, what’s going on, Kendall?” Greg stammered. _Relax,_ he told himself, but it was to no avail. His body remained coiled tightly. Kendall wasn’t looking at him, but over the edge of the roof’s barrier. It was, Greg thought, very careless architecture. Pretty dangerous stuff.

“I don’t know, Greg. You tell me.” 

“Hm?”

“There are no cameras up here, you know.”

“Oh? Uh. That’s cool.”

“Yeah, Greg. That is cool.” Kendall said, finally turning to face him, a rubbery smile worked onto his tired face. He was sporting rather prominent eye bags, and there was a spark in his stare that made Greg wonder whether any of this was the result of drug-induced mania. He didn’t want to step any closer, the whole thing gave him a bad taste in his mouth, but he could tell Kendall was expecting it so he walked over to him, regardless. 

“It’d be hard to get cameras here, anyway, right? Like, okay, where would you even put them? The sky?”

Kendall laughed. Greg did too. 

“That’s a good point. But, hey. You know where there are cameras?”

Greg felt his stomach drop out from under him.

“W-Where?”

“Fourth floor hallway.” Kendall answered, and he was still smiling but it was more expectant now, sharp, almost like a knife. He looked like Logan. “Sound and everything.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

“Shiv told me to leave it alone, said I was just torturing myself if I went back to look. She refused to come with. She said all it would do was traumatize me.” Kendall snorted. “I said, hey, what’s a little more of that, you know?”

“Sure, man.”

_“‘Sure, man.’”_ Kendall mocked. “Are you fucking dense? What’s wrong with you? I’m telling you I saw everything.”

“I—I’m not sure. . . what you—what you mean?” He mumbled. 

“Wow.” Kendall said, pitched low. “You’re fucking spineless, Greg.”

“Ken, really, it isn’t what you think—”

“Isn’t what I think? It _isn’t what I think?_ You’re the reason that fucker shot my brother. You’re the reason Roman’s fucking dead.”

“It’s not my fault, it—”

“Uh, no, It is _entirely_ your fault, Greg.” 

Greg couldn’t help but notice that this was the most alive Kendall had looked in weeks, but he pushed that thought far down enough for him to adequately collect himself.

“What, so, what? I was just supposed to let him kill me? Is that it? I’m just collateral fucking damage? Who cares what happens to me? It was self-defense.” Greg screamed, and, to his credit, Kendall looked properly impressed. “I was taking a page out of the Roy handbook. It’s—it’s survival. I won’t pretend I feel bad about that!”

“Self-defense. Survival.” Kendall nodded. “Well, it’s good you have your story checked out. I’m calling the fucking police.”

“What? Dude, you can’t do that.”

“ _Dude_ , yes, I can.”

“You’ve never done something you’re ashamed of? You’ve never gone along with something terrible because you felt like you had no other choice?” Greg pleaded, stepping closer. Kendall paused, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Greg. He looked like he’d short-circuited.

“You know what, Greg? Yes. Yes, I have.” He admitted, leaning against the barrier of the roof. He sounded a million years old. Everything about this situation was absolutely fucking ridiculous. “And I’m doing you a favor with this. I promise you I am doing you a favor. You might not even get time for it, but if you do, then just serve it. Just serve it! Absolve yourself. In the long run, it’s the better alternative.”

And, yeah, that was really easy for Kendall fucking Roy to say, huh?

“No.” Greg insisted, quiet. Kendall raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.” Kendall said, pulling out his phone. “Do you?”

“I’m not—I’m not—” Greg closed his eyes, breathing in and out, slow. Fuck. _Fuck_. He opened his eyes. “No.”

And then Greg pushed his cousin off the roof. 

  


The final verdict was suicide. Kendall, gone mad with grief, afflicted with a substance abuse problem, had flung himself off the roof of his own namesake. Greg ended up calling the police, alerting everyone to the situation, saying how he had tried to stop him and couldn’t. Most people didn’t even look at him as he passed by; he promptly left the building after giving his statement. The news outlets were flooded for days; crass, insensitive, cold headlines about a curse in the Roy family making the front page for a full week and a half.

Greg couldn’t bring himself to relax. It was all too easy. He felt bad. But not bad enough. Mainly he felt bad about not feeling that bad. 

He refused to check his phone for a couple of days, stuck mostly to staying in bed and reading the Wikipedia page for _Crime & Punishment. _When he finally got around to it, the first thing he saw was a notification from Tom. He hesitated and then opened it. 

_Great job, Veronica Sawyer. Fucking call me, okay?_

  


It was around 8pm. About four days after the—Greg swallowed—murder. Tom opened the door, smarmy grin situated on his face so carefully that it kind of disgusted Greg. Tom could never be real. God. What the fuck was Greg doing here? 

“Haven’t seen you around lately, buddy?” Tom said, beckoning him in, patting his back. 

“Called in sick a few days.”

“Did you now?”

“They tried to get me to see a traumatologist.”

“Shit. Are you going to?”

“No.” 

“Good choice. So, how do you feel?”

“How do I feel?”

“Post-killing?”

“Fuck you.” Greg recoiled, pulling away from the hand Tom had on his neck. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“What, did Kendall trip and fall ten stories down?”

“How are you joking about this? This is fucking serious! This, this is— _fuck_ , Tom, what the _fuck_ am I going to _do?”_ Greg yelled, tugging at his hair, panting erratically. Finally, the panic was setting in, which made him feel a little better. 

“What do you mean? You don’t have to do anything. You’ve done all there is to do. Shiv will be the successor, and after she’s gone, it’ll be me.”

“I—I thought you said we couldn’t kill Shiv!” Greg balked. “Also, you’re not actually a fucking Roy! I am!”

“That’s not what you said when you were offering Roman up as the proverbial lamb, is it?” Tom pointed out, shoving his shoulder amicably. “Besides, nobody’s killing Shiv. Shiv is off limits.”

“I thought you said Logan wouldn’t name a successor until he absolutely had to.”

“Yes, either that, or someone will have to name one for him after his untimely passing.”

“That could be years from now.”

Tom smiled, close-lipped. There was a wildness in his eyes that made the hair stand up on the back of Greg’s neck. 

“Well.”

“Well? Tom. What the fuck did you do?”

“Ricin.”

Greg faltered.

“ _Ricin?”_

“ _Ricinus communis_ , produced in the seeds of the castor oil plant. Lethal when inhaled, injected, or ingested. The Bulgarian secret police used it to kill a defector—”

“I know what Ricin is.” Greg interrupted (even though he didn’t). “Did you—did you _poison_ Logan?”

Tom folded his arms, petulant.

“I don’t like your tone.”

“You don’t like my _tone?”_

“No, I don’t. It’s very judge-y. Not a good look, Greg.”

“Holy shit. You poisoned Logan, Tom.”

“At least I didn’t shove him off the side of his own fucking building!” Tom barked. “God! Relax, Greg! He’s not even dead yet!”

“Jesus fuck. We’re going to fucking jail.”

“We’re not going to jail.”

“We’re going to jail. We are going to jail.”

“Greg—Greg, fucking—look at me.” Tom snapped, grabbing Greg’s chin roughly and tugging him close, his other hand snaking up to the nape of his neck. “We are not going to jail. He’s an old guy, right? I put it in his coffee this morning, coffee that somebody else was delivering. They’ll never suspect me and they’ll never suspect you. Roman was a targeted attack, and that’s what this is too. The whole Kendall thing is a symptom of that, a tragedy. Everybody hates the Roys and everybody hates Logan. They have no reason to suspect either of us. Okay?”

“I don’t feel real.” Greg mumbled, and something in Tom’s face shifted, almost imperceptibly. Fuck it. Greg decided to run with it. “You never feel real, do you?” 

“Pardon me?” Tom laughed. It made Greg wince. “I’m as real as it gets.”

“You’re not real at all. I thought I was real. I, like, literally thought I was the only person in a five-mile radius who was real.” 

Tom’s thumb swiped his cheek; a gesture that was almost protective, pseudo-tender. 

“Oh, Greg, none of us are fucking real. It’s fine.”

“I don’t think it’s fine. I think we’ve done something irreversible.”

Tom looked thoughtful.

“Irreversible, huh?” He said, and then he closed the distance between them. 

  


Here’s the thing about it—kissing Tom felt good. Much better than anything taking place between two people with a future combined body count of three ought to have a right to. 

Here’s the thing about it—Tom was still Tom. He just wouldn’t stop fucking talking. 

“God, you, you’re a little—you’re a little slut, huh?” He gasped, and Greg had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, instead opting for sinking his teeth lightly into the flesh behind Tom’s ear, which earned him a small, pleased noise, and, unbelievably, even more words. “Yeah, that’s—yeah. God. Fuck.”

(Like everything Greg did these days, it was almost too easy.)

He was working Tom’s clothes off, practically straddling him at this point, when they heard the damning click of somebody unlocking the door. Tom acted quickly; he pushed him off, jumped up and buttoned his shirt with a newfound zeal. Greg, disoriented, groaned and rubbed his face. Tom plucked him off the floor by the back of his collar, opened the door to a linen closet in the room adjacent to the one they were in, and shoved him inside. Greg indulged him, folding his body up as best he could. The crown of his head hit the top of the closet no matter how he positioned himself. Through the slits on the door, he saw Shiv walk in and kiss him. 

“Hey, honey.” Tom said, sounding breathless in a way that made Greg smirk (which he thought was more unlike him than the murder). 

“Hey.” Shiv said. She was clearly tired, wearing the same bone-deep weariness that had defined Kendall that day on the roof like a shawl. The sight of her made Greg nauseous.

“How’s Logan?”

“Fine, I guess. The nurses don’t really know what’s wrong with him, some kind of freak bug. Probably just. . . stress. And shock. It’s been a rough two weeks for him.” She said. Tom rubbed her shoulder, placating.

“A rough two weeks for us all.”

“Right. Anyway, I don’t think it’s all that serious.” Shiv insisted, which only made Greg feel even more nauseous. It was insane, how Tom could stand there so easily and say those things to her face. “Hey—did I interrupt something?”

“Hm?”

“You look—disheveled.”

“Disheveled? I’m not disheveled.”

“You skipped a button. And you’re all flushed. Holy shit, Tom, did you bring a girl home?” Shiv said, but she sounded—almost excited. Their marriage was open, Greg remembered, but he didn’t know it was _that_ open. “While I was visiting my father in the hospital? Oh my God. Where is she? Did you tell her to hide?”

“What? No! I—no, there’s no girl.” Tom said, and, well, that much was true. 

“No? You were just waiting up for me, then?” Shiv wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in to press her lips to his. The casual intimacy looked foreign and wrong, even from Greg’s less than ideal vantage point. 

“Yeah. I was. Uh, can you—can you come with me for a minute? Into the. . . kitchen?”

Shiv frowned, but let herself be led away from the living room. Greg huffed; he couldn’t see them, not anymore. He strained his ears, trying to hear something. 

He made out a pointed “What?” — Shiv, scandalized. And then Tom murmured something, but it was unintelligible. Greg frowned, focused. 

Shiv: Tom, this isn’t fucking funny. Oh my God. What the fuck. Are you serious?

Tom: [more indecipherable murmuring]

Shiv: The successor????

It was at this point that Greg started to, admittedly, freak the fuck out. As gently and quietly as he could manage, he turned the doorknob, slipping out of the closet—Jesus Christ, his life was a joke—and he leaned against the wall, peeking over the edge to see Shiv and Tom, both turned away from him, the former with a hand over her mouth and the latter looking properly chastised. 

“I know it’s crazy—”

“Crazy doesn’t even begin to fucking cover it!” Shiv whispered harshly. “You’re telling me _Cousin fucking Greg_ did all of this?”

Oh. 

“Yes. He told me about it the second it happened.”

“What, like he was fucking proud of it or something?”

“Sure—yes.”

_Oh._

“That sociopathic fuck. Jesus. Call the cops.”

“What?”

“Call the cops on him, Tom!”

“Oh, Shiv, I mean—”

“What.” She demanded, hands on her hips. Tom cowered, reaching into his pockets, looking for his phone. Which Greg had on him. Because they’d been about to fuck and it had been digging into Greg’s thigh so he’d taken control and grabbed it and Tom had gotten this agonizing look in his eyes, like he’d been waiting so long—and Greg knew he had; Greg himself kind of had—like he never wanted to do anything but awkwardly, roughly kiss him ever again.

“It’s not—I left it in the living room.”

“Okay? Go fucking get it.”

“I—okay.” Tom said, and he ducked out of the kitchen. Shiv ran a hand through her hair, her breathing haggard. She was leaning over the counter. Greg, slowly, walked up behind her, and grabbed a vase from a table. He didn’t feel real. None of this felt real. 

“Shiv, I—I can’t find it.” Greg froze, but Shiv didn’t move. No, she huffed instead, pulling out her own phone and dialing a number. 

“It’s fine, I’ll call you, okay?” She said, and Greg had little time to react before she did just that, Tom’s ringtone blaring out of Greg’s pocket like this was a game of Jenga and the tower had toppled over. Shiv swiveled around, eyes wide, staring glassily at the vase suspended in the air between them. She looked like Roman. He’d never really seen the family resemblance before today. 

“Greg, wait—” 

“I’m sorry.” Greg said, and he meant it, before breaking the vase over Shiv’s head and knocking her unconscious. 

Silence. It took Tom a minute or two to gather himself and step back into the kitchen, a look of disbelief painted across his face. He looked cracked open. He looked real. So this was the actual Tom. Small. Scared. Confused. 

It was, Greg thought, a good look. 

“Fuck.” Tom said. 

“Yeah.” Greg said.

“ _Fuck.”_ Tom said.

“Yeah.” Greg said.

“Fuck! _Fuck!_ Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and then Tom went over to where Shiv’s body had crumpled, cutting his fingers on the broken glass as he sat her up and pressed his bloody index to the side of her neck. He let out a relieved sigh. “She’s alive.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

Tom glared at him, standing back up. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you. We said Shiv was off limits.”

“Oh, but giving me up wasn’t?”

“That wasn’t outlined under the terms of our verbal agreement.” Tom replied disdainfully. 

“I trusted you!”

“Well. You probably shouldn’t have done that.” Tom shrugged. Greg felt a vein throb. “Look. She deserved to know what was going on. She was responding out of shock! I wasn’t going to let her turn you in.”

“No, you were going to turn me in yourself.”

“Well, Greg, you killed two people.”

“Fuck you! You poisoned an immortal patriarch!” Greg screamed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “God. Fuck. I need a drink.”

“Second cabinet to your right.”

“Yeah, I know where the fucking alcohol is, Tom.” 

“I was just trying to be helpful,” Tom said, affronted, and Greg didn’t dignify that with a response, choosing instead to pour Bordeaux into the nearest wine glass. 

He was glad Shiv was alive. Really, he was. He liked Shiv. He’d liked Roman and Kendall, too. They were family. They’d never treated him like family, ever, not once, but they were still family. He, like, loved them. He did. Roman and Ken—it was awful, Greg wasn’t going to sugarcoat that. It was awful what he did. He was probably going to hell. But it was still self-defense. It was still self-preservation. All that really did was. . . make him a real Roy. And Tom, too, poisoning Logan for status. That was more Roy than anything else. 

He laughed and it was a delirious, almost manic thing. His hands shook so hard that the wine sloshed around and spilled over the edges and onto his knuckles, not red enough and far too watery to be blood—and there was a metaphor in that, too, but Greg couldn’t wrap his head around it. He vaguely registered somebody standing beside him, and then arms snaking around his midsection, a voice in his ear that made him shiver. 

“ _Not that I loved Rome less, but that I loved Caesar more.”_ Tom said, low, and Greg felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. Warm, sticky fluid spilled from the wound, and he felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. The room swayed a bit, or maybe he was swaying—no, he wasn’t swaying, he couldn’t be; Tom was still holding him tight. Once again, it was almost protective. Pseudo-tender. And yet. Oddly enough, he felt genuinely fucking safe.

Greg couldn’t help it; he started laughing again, which made the sharp pain in his ribs cut even deeper. 

“Dude.” He said, strained. 

“What? It’s Shakespeare. _Julius Caesar_.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve read it. I love it. You said it backwards.”

“What?”

“It’s— _not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.”_ Greg corrected, and then he grabbed the knife from Tom’s hands and pushed him down to his knees. He tipped Tom’s head back, pressing the glass of wine to his lips, gently let him have half of it. Then, he finished the dregs of the drink, and kneeled down before him. 

“You like Shakespeare.” Tom said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Wanna hear another one?” Greg asked, straightening Tom’s collar, fixing Tom’s buttons. He’d always found it creepy how open-casket funerals required you to dress a corpse in their Sunday best, but he kind of understood it now. 

“Yes.”

 _“Ah, dear Juliet, why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial Death is amorous, that the lean abhorrèd monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that, I still will stay with thee, and never from this palace of dim night depart again. Here, here will I remain with worms that are thy chambermaids.”_ Greg recited (and although he could feel himself losing consciousness, tripping up: in his mind’s eye every word was perfect—so that is how the story will be told). 

“Good memory you got there.”

“I, I actually can’t remember the next part.” Greg admitted, eyes fluttering closed, and Tom laughed. Not like his other, larger-than-life-dame laugh. Quieter, more contained, more serious. 

“Try, anyway.” He said. So Greg did.

_“Here’s to my love! O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”_ Greg cleared his throat. “And then he dies.” 

“Very literal. ‘Thus with a kiss I die.’”

“Thus with a kiss I die.” Greg echoed, humming, tracing the lines of Tom’s skin. They were the only two people left in the world. All that meant was that there was nobody to hold them accountable anymore. Perhaps—and this was the kicker—there never really had been in the first place. Well. Whatever.

He leaned in, pressed his lips to Tom’s and kissed him; chaste, long, bittersweet. He rested his forehead against Tom’s, could feel Tom’s eyelashes sweep his nose as he blinked, as Greg’s hands moved, as Tom realized what he was doing, but it was too late—

Greg plunged the knife in. 

  


(When Shiv finally came to, there was a paramedic leaning over her, wrapping her up in a shock blanket and asking her too many questions at a time, as another paramedic held her in place and examined her head wound. It took her several long minutes to remember what had happened. When she finally did, she passed the message on, told them what Tom had told her about Greg and Rome and Ken. 

In turn, she was informed of her father’s passing. And that she was the new CEO of Waystar Royco, effective immediately. 

Every light was too bright, every sensation overwhelming. She called out for Tom, and the strain made her dizzy. Yet another faceless paramedic was there immediately to tell her that Tom was dead, and Greg was dead (their bodies were tangled up together when found, a mess of blood and limbs, but she wasn’t told that part, it wasn’t deemed important enough, besides, it was only fair that she should be spared the gory details), and Logan, Kendall, Roman—all dead, and Shiv couldn’t say when the last time she cried freely was, because, to her surprise, it wasn’t then. 

All Shiv did, really, was frown as she tugged the shock blanket closer around her, wincing accordingly, and answering what was asked of her, mind spinning with the knowledge that she had inherited an Empire solely because she was the only remaining member of the Roy legacy. Other than Connor, Marcia, her mother—but none of them counted, not really. Shiv finally had everything she ever wanted, and she had it because she was the sole survivor. 

As they drove her to the hospital (apparently, she had a concussion), Shiv looked out the window and thought about an old proverb her mother would say to her sometimes, whenever Logan would go too far with one of them, or whenever they would go too far with each other, or whenever Cousin Greg visited and they went too far with him— _Treade a worme on the tayle, and it must turne agayne._

Weird spelling, funny old English. Roman would always make fun of it. _Treade a worme on the tayle, and it must turne agayne._ Even the meekest or most docile of creatures will retaliate or seek revenge if pushed too far.

Even a worm will turn.)

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot reiterate enough how not serious this is  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/reuvenmaiter)  
> [tumblr](https://60skirk.tumblr.com)  
> [my ridiculously indulgent tom playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7iUCEjeXLZRRM2cKlWK9kp?si=ywmvtxu7T0SVfIO58ojf8A)  
> 


End file.
